


Wasps Nest

by HarperRose (Harper_Rose)



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Angst, Complicated Relationships, Explicit Sexual Content, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Micah ruining everything as per usual, Pining, Romance, arthur centric, follows game storyline, idk why??? These things just happen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-10
Updated: 2019-06-12
Packaged: 2020-04-24 02:09:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19163662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Harper_Rose/pseuds/HarperRose
Summary: Arthur thinks about Dutch, about what he wants to say to Dutch. He don’t know how to phrase it, all them things that get jumbled up inside him. He ain’t never been good at it, always letting things pass him by without telling them around him how important they are to him. He never told Eliza, should have told Isaac more often. Maybe if he’d told Mary she would have loved him more.But Dutch ain’t Mary and Arthur knows that. He ain’t fooling himself or nothing, he don’t want Dutch to be Mary.~ ~ ~“You make yourself Dutch’s little whore, now, hmm? Scared he don’t need you no more, afraid of bein’ replaced, so you find yourself a new use? Or maybe that’s always been in your job description, hmm?”“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”“No? You telling me that weren’t you in there gaspin’ and moanin’ like the biggest whore this side of the Lannahechee? Arthur Morgan, big scary outlaw, fallin’ to his knees in a bid to stay useful.”





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don’t rightly know why I wrote this but, uhhhh, guess I write explicit rated shit now. Don’t know what to think of that.

    Arthur hates the cold, hates the winter months when it snows and snows and snows. They’re holed up in Colter, or what’s left of it, hiding inside the cabin that he, Hosea, and Dutch share. The place is far from the worst that Arthur has had to sleep in, but it’s drafty and noisy and the cold bites at Arthur’s nose and ears. The snow and windchill that barrels down on the valley rattles Arthur to his bones; is keeping him frozen stiff with chattering teeth and frozen fingertips.

    “Damn shithole is gonna blow away if that wind keeps up,” he grumbles into the scarf he keeps wrapped around his throat, his gloved hands stuffed in his pits as he keeps his arms wound tight around himself.

    Dutch sighs, looking up from the book he’s had his nose buried in since they finally settled in about a half hour ago.

    Arthur marvels at the man's calm, wonders how he achieved that after the hell they just escaped. Wonders if he really has or if he's only forcing it upon himself in a bid for control.

    “Stop your complaining, dear boy, we will be alright here for now,” Dutch chides, but there’s no real bite to his words.

    Arthur exhales, his breath clouding the air, and takes a seat beside Dutch on his cot. “We stay here much longer and we’ll only get snowed in.”

    “As dilapidated as this sad structure is, it’ll keep us dry and warm enough for a couple nights. There isn’t a chance we were followed this far, we’re safe here.”

    Arthur snorts. “I don’t even know what that word means. Think the women will let me sleep on the floor of their cabin?” The women and Jack were given the least drafty of the cabins, with two fireplaces to boot.

    “Maybe when you were a boy you could have stirred enough sympathy in Miss Grimshaw, Arthur,” Dutch says with a hint of a smile. “I’m afraid you’re a bit too _brutish_ to tempt that now. You snore.”

    Arthur smiles.

    “And it means uncared-for,” Dutch says, nose back in his book.

    “What?”

    “Dilapidated.”

    Arthur nods. “What are you reading?”

    “Evelyn Miller.”

    “Mh.”

    “Is there something you need, Arthur?” Dutch shuts his book, dog-earing his page.

    Arthur shrugs. He’s restless, feels trapped in camp with how shit the weather is growing. He also feels exhausted, deeply drained and calling on his last reserves to keep him upright. He sniffs, breathing into his cupped, gloved hands. They’ve given Hosea the front room with it’s large fireplace, the man was already fast asleep, leaving Arthur and Dutch the two small rooms. Arthur was beyond ready to get some rest, but he’s reluctant to leave the warmth of Dutch for his own icy room. He wants to go out, hunting maybe, they need food desperately, but the snowstorm rages on blocking the sky and with snow too thick to see a foot in front of you.

    “No,” he grunts.

    Dutch sighs. “Are you that cold?”

    Arthur eyes Dutch who sits with his own heavy bear-pelt coat still draped over his shoulders. Arthur remembers the day that Dutch killed that bear, remembers it getting a little too close to the both of them for comfort. “You not?”

    Dutch, ever patient, sets his novel aside and rises. Arthur watches him curiously. Dutch removes his boots and sets them beside his trunk of belongings. “Come here,” he says, sitting on his cot and outstretching an arm to Arthur. An offer.

    Arthur frowns and scratches his stubbled jaw.

    “Come, get warm.”

    Almost hesitant, Arthur sits and feels himself relax as Dutch wraps an arm around him, pulling Arthur tight. The two of them only just fit in the cot, but it’s not a problem. Arthur shuffles close against Dutch, burrowing himself in his warmth. A shiver shutters up Arthur’s spine and Dutch runs a gloved hand up and down Arthur’s back, rubbing the warmth back into him.

    It’s been some time since Arthur and Dutch have been very close, physically especially. They haven’t shared a bed since some weeks before Blackwater. Dutch showed a passing interest in Miss O’Shea, and Arthur didn’t mind it, not really, but he can’t deny a certain level of relief as the couple began to drift apart.

    “Get some sleep, son,” Dutch tells him. “We’re going to need you the next couple of days. Hopefully, this will die down and some of you boys can find something in all that snow to hunt.”

    “Mh.” Arthur is already drowsy from the warmth. “Ain’t too good a hunter.” His words are muffled against Dutch’s coat.

    Dutch plants a soft kiss in Arthur’s hair. “You’ve always been a quick learner.”

 

* * *

 

    Arthur, nor Dutch, mention their shared quarters that first night in Colter. Nor, do they share a bed or engage in anything so intimate afterward. They leave the mountains after only a couple of days, riding down to the warm welcome of the heartlands. New Hanover is unfamiliar territory for Arthur, but Hosea promises a prosperous enough land. It’s beautiful, Arthur thinks. He’s not been in the midwest since he were a boy, before he fell in with Dutch and Hosea.

    Sleep is out of Arthur’s reach for another day, the day’s weighing too heavy on his mind. Tired as he is, he doesn’t want to sleep. A cigarette hangs limp between his teeth and his knuckles ache, dried blood flakes from busted skin as he flexes his fingers. He beat a man today, in a fit of rage over a meaningless altercation at a saloon. He just gets so goddamn _angry,_ feels a lava like rage boiling inside himself that is only tempered during a good fight. It never lasts, that brief moment of respite, only rekindles twice as strong after, when he is left to lick his wounds.

    He almost _wants_ to run Strauss’s little errands, even if he disagrees with the beady eyed Austrian’s ways of bringing in money. Don’t care for loans and debts and all that nasty business. He values the moments of his knuckles breaking skin, hot blood on his hands. And he hates how much sick pleasure it gives him.

    Dutch’s perfect little enforcer. Rabid mutt, more like. Meant to be tethered up and only let loose when someone needs biting.

    Ain’t Dutch’s fault, he supposes. He and Hosea only ever taught him how to survive and then how to live. It’s Arthur who ain’t right, all gnarled up inside and with a big empty hole where something real important is meant to be.

    Arthur looks out between the trees, listening to the sounds of the camp and the animals that tramp through the underbrush. They’ve been laying low, more or less. Most of them have yet to venture into Valentine. Dutch poked his nose around, sniffing for some down-on-their-luck or idiot to scam, and Arthur got in a bar fight.

    That’s just the way things go.

    “Hey, Karen,” he stops the woman as she heads for the treeline to take up her shift as afternoon watch. “You seen Dutch?” Last Arthur saw him was in Valentine with Trelawney.

    “Yeah, he’s over by that old wagon back in the trees,” Karen says. “Think he’s readin’.”

    Arthur nods. “Thanks.”

    Arthur’s strides are much more purposeful as he trudges across camp. He finds Dutch just where Karen said he would be. He sits in the grass, his back against the thick, old tree that grows beside the broken and abandoned wagon. His legs are crossed at the ankles and a book is sat in his lap.

    He looks… brighter than he has since that disaster in Blackwater, the thaw since leaving the Grizzlies has done him good. His eyes are sparkling once more and Arthur can see he’s been thinking a little clearer these past couple days since settling in here at Horseshoe Overlook.

    “Evelyn Miller?”

    Dutch looks up at him and offers a warm smile, one that really reaches his eyes. “Not today, no.”

    Arthur settles down in the grass beside him, exhaling a plume of smoke. He feels too keyed up over his fight in town, the smoking helps. He rolls the cigarette between his fingers. “What _are_ you reading?”

    “Dracula.”

    Arthur’s nose scrunches up at the title. _“Dracula?”_

    “Mhm.”

    “Wa’s that about?”

    Dutch’s smile is sharp and showy, something that might intimidate a lesser man, but he’s long lost the ability to frighten Arthur. Instead, Arthur finds himself smiling back in return.

    “Vampires.”

    Arthur flicks aside the remaining stub of his cigarette, wishing he had one of Dutch’s cigars instead, and stretches out, his head resting beside Dutch’s thigh. “Vampires, huh? Read it to me?” he asks, almost beside himself with how timid the question sounds to his own ears. But Dutch either doesn’t seem to hear it, or doesn’t mind it.

    “ _The fair girl went on her knees and bent over me, fairly gloating. There was a deliberate voluptuousness which-”_

    “What’s, uh, voluptusness?”

    “It means shapely.”

    “Mh.”

    _“There was a deliberate voluptuousness which was both thrilling and repulsive, and as she arched her neck she actually licked her lips like an animal,”_ he began to read. “ _I could feel the soft, shivering touch of the lips on the supersensitive skin of my throat, and the hard dents of two sharp teeth.”_ His voice was rich and breezy where he has no trouble pronouncing the words that rolled over Arthur’s ears.

    Arthur extracts his journal, adding the word to a list he keeps of the new words Dutch or Hosea have to define for him. He used to do this often when he was younger and Dutch had patiently taught him his letters. He might be embarrassed by his need to do this still, but he often finds it difficult to seek chagrin before Dutch Van der Linde.

    Arthur shifts and smashes his hat down over his eyes, both to shade himself from the sun and to hide himself from Dutch. He folds his arms behind his head and shuts his eyes.

    _“But at that instant another sensation swept through me as quick as lightning. I was conscious of the presence of the Count, and of his being as if lapped in a storm of fury. As my eyes opened involuntarily I saw his strong hand grasp the slender neck of the fair woman and with giant’s power draw it back, the blue eyes transformed with fury, the white teeth champing with rage, and the fair cheeks blazing red with passion.”_

    Arthur feels fingers card through his hair and hums drowsily against Dutch’s thigh. It’s nice, being alone with Dutch. It feels like something so rare these days, with the gang growing and the recent chaos of Blackwater and the trouble that Micah often seeks out only for Arthur to be ordered to clean up. He feels… calmer with Dutch. Allows himself to let his guard down, trusting the man enough to know that he’s safe. All his anger and all that lava that boils inside him don’t feel so near the surface.

 

    Arthur jerks back to consciousness, sitting up, his hat falling in his lap. The sun has shifted location in the sky, the shadows denser and elongated. Arthur clears his throat.

    “I thought I’d let you get your due rest,” Dutch says. “You’ve been working very hard since Blackwater.”

    “Mh. I was working hard _in_ Blackwater,” he says before he thinks better of it. He feels guilty when he sees that pinched expression on Dutch’s face. “What time’s it?” He runs a hand through his hair, sweeping it back and placing his hat back on. He needs a haircut, he thinks.

    “About three.”

    Arthur nods, stretching his sore limbs. “Need to meet Javier and Charles to get Sean.”

    “I won’t keep you then, you’re on a time crunch. Bring that boy home in one piece, would you, Arthur?”

    Arthur brushes dirt and leaves from his pants as he stands. “I’ll do my best, Dutch.”

   

 

   

    Sean gave a drunken speech that the gang cheered and toasted to. Arthur grabbed himself a beer and took a seat by the fire, enjoying the rare reprieve from the last weeks of chaos.

    Arthur watches the party unfold with typical fanfair. John is near as drunk as Sean, Javier plays his guitar and the women dance and drink. Uncle manages to hold his liquor as shockingly well as always. Sean and Karen are near inseparable, Karen in the boy’s lap as they sing along to Javier’s song. He sees Molly O’Shea and Dutch exchange some words by his tent and he feels a sharp twist in his chest, wonders what they’re saying, wonders what them being civil means, selfishly, for him. They ain’t been so close for some weeks, haven’t shared a bed for a month and more. Molly had started sharing a tent with the other girls, and Arthur’s been quite glad to see the ladies actually getting on with her as of late.

    Still, there is undeniable jealousy pooling in the pit of his stomach and tapping into that anger that always stays under his skin, holding onto him tight.

    Javier takes a break from his guitar to grab a drink and Dutch begins playing music from his phonograph, the boys singing some familiar tune amongst themselves. Arthur grabs himself another whiskey and excuses himself to a patch of grass near his own wagon. Arthur sits alone, drinking and listening to the party around him carry on. Arthur drinks alone and tries not to think about what Molly might be saying to Dutch.

    He wants to like her, she’s nice enough and she ain’t ever meant no one any harm. But something mean and nasty inside him truly hates her.

    He tries to push it from his mind. He hums along to Uncle, Hosea, and Bill singing, Javier taking up his guitar once again. Arthur pulls out his journal with clumsy fingers and flips to a page he’s half filled with already. There’s neat handwriting and some drawings, a sketch of Javier and a more carefully detailed portrait of Tilly. Arthur extracts his pencil and takes to drawing the scene of the men at the campfire before him. Their figures no more than clumsy shapes that will require more thoughtful lines in the sobriety of tomorrow.

    “Enjoying yourself?” Dutch asks quietly. He stands above Arthur dressed down without his jacket or elegant vest that Arthur is secretly in love with. Likes the way the fabric reflects the sunlight and makes Dutch almost glow; radiate.

    “Evenin’, Dutch. S’alright. S’good Sean’s back but we can’t forget the law’s on us.” Arthur’s speech isn’t clear, even to his own ears, his tongue is heavy in his mouth; clumsy.

    “We haven’t,” Dutch speaks soothingly. “We only need money and then we’ll be far enough away from this place none of it will matter.”

    “Where’ll we go?”

    Dutch hums. “I haven’t decided. Hopefully west, should things go to plan.”

    “Plans change.”

    “Yes, they do.”

    “Need to be careful.”

    Arthur startles as he feels fingers in his hair. He pulls away, swaying drunkenly and putting a hand out to keep from toppling over, and Dutch quickly removes his hand. “Uh. Sorry,” Arthur apologizes.

    Dutch reaches out once more and swipes the hair from Arthur’s forehead. “My apologies, Arthur, I just wanted to see how you were getting on. You’ve been reclusive.”

    Arthur wonders where his hat was left. “M’fine. Wha’bout you, Dutch?” he asks. “I ain’t seen you with a drink all night. You deserve to relax.”

    “One of us needs to remain sober.”

    “Mh.” Arthur closes his journal, using the nub of a pencil to mark his page. Clumsily, he stands, brushing off his pants. Dutch looks at him expectantly. Arthur wants to say a hundred different things to Dutch, all sorts of thoughts come to mind. It’s for this reason that Arthur is horrified when “Wha’ was you talkin about with Molly?” is what slips out.

    Dutch looks surprised.

    Arthur runs a hand over the back of his neck. “I mean- Ain’t none of m’business, just…” He shrugs.

    “Oh, Arthur.”

    He feels his cheeks flush hot and Dutch reaches out to cup his jaw.

    “Are you jealous of Miss O’Shea?”

    “Uh. It’s…” He swallows thickly, his tongue feeling like lead in his mouth.

    Dutch’s thumb runs circles over Arthur’s cheek, the pad of his thumb catching on Arthur’s beard. His eyes are dark, both in color and in the firelight that casts heavy shadows over the both of them. Obscuring them in nature and shielding them from the gang.

    Arthur exhales noisily. “Ain’t like that, I just, been thinkin’-”

    “You’re a horrible liar, Arthur.”

    “Don’t usually see the point.”

    “Then don’t start now on my account.”

    “I miss you,” he says. He does, he misses Dutch with a passion, the way they used to be. Arthur ain’t a blushing maiden, he and Dutch have shared an intimacy unique to them for years. They always been… physical in a sense. They’ve shared a bed, in the most literal way, they’ve touched, they’ve proded, they’ve kissed once or twice. But it was never something labeled, that weren’t how they are. Men don’t… they aren’t meant to _feel_ that way about other men. Sure, it was common enough in mining towns and among cowboys, months spent without a woman in sight and miles from any brothel or whore. But that weren’t like… this. Arthur don’t want to just take from Dutch, he wants… “I want-”

    Dutch kisses him.

    It’s sweet and slow and leaves Arthur moaning into his open mouth before reality sets and he pulls away.

    “I, uh- you don’t gotta be sweet ta me just ‘cus I’m sad n’ drunk.”

    “Oh, Arthur. You really are a blind fool.”

    Arthur swallows. “Just don’t see why you’d wanna do this with me s’all.”

    “You are such a fool, Arthur. It’s a good thing you’re a sight to look at.”

    Arthur scoffs. “I ain’t _pretty,_ Dutch.”

    “Nonsense.”

    Dutch goes in for another kiss, this time deeper and less forgiving. Like he’s trying to tell Arthur something he’s too dense to understand. His rough hands in Arthur’s hair tug the younger man’s head back enough to give Dutch access to his jaw and neck.

    Arthur moans and let’s Dutch do as he pleases. “Dutch,” he can hear the pleading in his voice. “Dutch, the others’ll…” He’s suddenly washed with the fear of being caught in the act. Of the others knowing he’s… he’s a… he don’t know.

    Dutch nods, his forehead resting against Arthur’s. “Come to my tent.”

    Arthur nods, not strong enough to reason, and lets Dutch take him by the hand and lead the way. Dutch draws the tent flaps and ties them off, giving them the most privacy that can be afforded in a gang of tight knit outlaws. Everyone is almost constantly in someone else’s pocket and privacy is a luxury. Arthur just ain’t never expected to _want_ to be so in Dutch’s pocket.

    Arthur sits on Dutch’s cot and knows he’s looking at the man with far too soft eyes, revealing too much too quick. “Dutch.”

    Dutch sits beside Arthur and takes Arthur’s face in his hands, kissing him solidly. He bits at Arthur’s lower lip and the younger man gladly opens up to him, lapping at his mouth, sucking on his teeth. He lets Dutch guide him to lay down on the cot, feels the man all over him. He feels Dutch’s hand along the side of his body, trailing down his abdomen and gripping his hip.

    Arthur, drunk and touch starved, bucks his hips.

    Dutch chuckles. “So needy.”

    “Dutch. Dutch. Please.”

    “Tell me what you want, Arthur.”

    The way he says Arthur’s name sends a warm shiver up his spine, pooling in his stomach.

    “You are so beautiful, my dear. I wish you could see yourself.”

    Arthur shakes his head. The way Dutch said it had Arthur almost believing him. He gripped Dutch by the hair and forced his mouth back down for another kiss, his hips jerking desperately, searching for friction. The feel of Dutch against him had him a moaning mess. “Dutch,” Arthur gasps as Dutch thrusts against him, their clothed cocks rubbing against each other.

    It’s been too long since they’ve been like this. Their proximity goes right to Arthur’s head, and his cock, and leaves him breathless and achingly hard.

    Dutch unbuckles Arthur’s belt, setting the guns aside on the wood floor with a clatter. He unclips Arthur’s suspenders, rucks Arthur’s shirt up. Taking Arthur in his hands, Arthur’s moan is loud. He bites his lip. He’s afraid of being overheard, of the others _knowing_ what they do alone.

    Dutch’s hands are calloused and rough, but Arthur has never felt anything so amazing.

    “So good for me, Arthur. You’re doing so well. Always such a good boy.”

    The praise goes right to Arthur’s cock and, rutting desperately against the older, still mostly clothed man, Arthur finishes with a choked shout.

    Dutch kisses him hard and brushes sweat-damp hair from his forehead. Arthur is only partially aware of Dutch cleaning them both up, redressing Arthur with softer pants.

    Arthur curls into Dutch, sleep taking him easily.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comment, I guess? Idk why anyone would want to read this but I wrote it so lmk if anyone wants more. I just had the urge to write some of these two boys.


	2. Chapter 2

    Voices and birdsong sooth Arthur as he sits and draws under the shade of Dutch’s tent. Arthur had spent the afternoon fetching a bounty northwest of Valentine after accompanying Hosea out to Emerald Ranch. Arthur took the rest of the day to hunt and with the camp now sufficiently stocked with enough meat for the next week or more, Arthur is thoroughly exhausted. Dutch went into town with Hosea, Arthur doesn’t know what for, so Arthur sits alone on Dutch’s cot, drawing the flowers and herbs he collected on his hunt.

    “Arthur!”

    He looks up to see Dutch marching towards him, looking pleased to see him. “Hey, Dutch.”

    “Arthur, how are you?”

    “Fine. Hosea tell you about the stage we stole? The _stolen_ stage we stole, I mean.”

    Dutch takes a seat beside Arthur on the cot. His presence warms Arthur, bringing a small smile to his lips. “He did. Sounds like a good time. You and Hosea have always made quite the team.”

    “Mh. Got a good take from the house, and Hosea thinks the ranch hand will come in use.”

    “We can always do with having a fence we can trust,” Dutch says sagely. “Especially you, with all the odds and ends you find while galavanting around this fine country.”

    Arthur laughs softly. “Hosea thinks so too.”

    Dutch’s gaze travels to the open pages of Arthur’s journal where it sits in his lap, and, for once, Arthur don’t mind someone taking a peek. “These are very beautiful, Arthur.”

    “They’re just what I remember, mostly,” he says offhand.

    “Then you have a stunning memory. Twenty years and you’ve never shown me a page of your journals.”

    “They’re just flowers, Dutch.”

    “You remind me so much of Hosea sometimes.”

    Arthur doesn't know exactly what he means by that, but he decides it’s an honor he is undeserving of. “They’re just some flowers.”

    “They’re much more than that.”

    “If you say so.” Arthur sets his journal aside, leaving it on the cowhide covered table. “Say, you find a buyer for those bonds we stole yet?”

    “Not yet, but Hosea’s working on it.”

    Arthur nods. “When we headed west?”

    Dutch stands, as if suddenly gripped with uncertain energy. “Soon… I don’t know.”

    Arthur follows after him. “Feels like… things’ve changed, whole world’s changed, I mean. They don’t want people like us no more. We’re bein’ hunted.”

    “We’re smarter than them.” In that, Dutch sounds confident. “Only the feeblest of minded take jobs in the government.”

    Arthur laughs, loud and grinning at Dutch. He thinks it catched a few peoples’ attention but he don’t mind, biting his lip. “I hope so. I trust you.”

    “Bounty hunters have always been around and the Pinkerton’s don’t frighten me.”

    Arthur nods, lighting up a cigarette. It’s a nice day in the Heartlands, warm and sunny and calm. It’s only nicer with Dutch standing so close beside him. It makes Arthur smile.

    And then comes Lenny, flying into camp like a storm on the back on his snorting morgan horse, shouting about Micah fucking Bell.

    “They got Micah in the sheriff’s at Strawberry. There’s talk of hangin’ him.”

    “Here’s hoping.”

    Dutch turns on him with no small amount of disappointment. “Arthur.”

    “What? The fool brought this on himself,” he argues. “You know my feelings about him, Dutch.”

    “You think I can’t see past his bluster to the heart inside? He is a fine man-”

    “No. I ain’t savin’ that fool.”

    “I can’t go,” Dutch reasons. “My face’ll be all over West Elizabeth. I am _asking._ He would do it for you.”

    “I don’t think he would, but, fine. Alright.” Arthur sighs, frustrated. “You alright there, Lenny.”

    “Yeah.” The boy is visibly shaken up and tired, but he has a good strong front.

    “Take that boy into town, Valentine, not Strawberry. Get him drunk, but, Arthur? No crazy business.”

    Arthur shoots Dutch a broad grin, throwing his arms out wide. “I’ve given that up!”

    And so Arthur takes Lenny to the saloon for a “quiet drink.” However, as things to to for Arthur, the night gets out of hand. One drink leads to two, leads to three, leads to four, and soon Arthur loses counts. His memories on the specifics are hazy, he recalls dancing and laughter, and that blissful numbness only afforded by copious amounts of alcohol.

    Waking in a jail cell is disorienting. After paying their owed fine, for what, Arthur cannot remember, Arthur is just surprised he’s kept his alcohol down. He feels like shit, head pounding a nasty rhythm and his stomach churning. He feels pathetic. And then he feels angry.

    Stupid. It was so stupid of him, letting things get out of hand.

    He doesn’t have the time to worry about it now, he told Dutch he’d head to Strawberry. So that’s what he does.

   

 

    “You gonna get me outta here?”

    “I ain’t decided yet.”

    “Real funny.”

    “I ain’t jokin’, cowpoke,” Arthur says. “I heard so much bluster outta your mouth these last six months, and now I got an opportunity to watch you be silenced.” It’s tempting, far too tempting, to just leave Micah here to rot and be hanged. Maybe choked to death by that O’Driscoll he sees. He can’t deny it might even please him to see. But he promised Dutch.

    “You’ve got to do _somethin’,_ Arthur!”

    So Arthur does something alright, and Micah don’t make it easy on the either of them. Man blows half the town away, all over a couple of damn guns. Arthur shoots the law to save his own hide, kills a few civilians too, he’s sure. It was all so hectic, his head pounding and his heart racing. Micah coming full undone in the middle of Strawberry. Only blessing, he supposes, is his new horse being brave enough to not abandon him when the gunfire started, he wouldn’t have been surprised if she had run for it.

    “You’ve lost yer mind!”

    “Keep shooting!”

    Micah leads them out of town, a few miles south of Strawberry, before either of them feel safe to take a moment. Arthur pats his horse soothingly, muttering praises under his breath.

    “I think we finally lost ‘em,” Micah shouts over the rolling thunder, lightning cracking overhead and splitting the sky in two.

    Arthur wishes the heavens would open up and strike them both dead here and now.

    Micah gives him an extra holster, replacing the offhand holster Arthur lost in the quick retreat from Blackwater, as if that makes up for the death and madness of all this mess.

    “And there I was, having a dull day only for you to liven it up by letting me help you shoot up half a town!”

    Micah laughs. “Yer a funny feller, Arthur, real funny. Why you act all sour all the time?”

    “Yeah, well, you ain’t funny at all so why you gotta act like the court jester?”

    “I’m sorry, but we’re family now, Arthur. You and me, sons of Dutch. That makes us brothers and sometimes brothers make mistakes.”

    Arthur could laugh. As it is, he shakes his head. “We ain’t nothing of the sort and Dutch ain’t my-” Arthur bites his tongue. He _ain’t_ Arthur’s father. If anyone that would be Hosea, Arthur _wishes_ it was Hosea. Dutch ain’t… they’re not… it ain’t like that.

    Arthur adjusts his shirt collar, making sure it’s stayed high enough to hide the deep bruises Dutch has sucked into his flesh.

    “So you ain’t headin’ back to Dutch?”

    “No, I’ve been a bad boy, Arthur. I ain’t seein’ Dutch till I can bring him a peace offering.”

    Gonna need a real pretty offering, Arthur thinks. He lets Micah go all to glad to be rid of him, arriving back to camp in the late evening in a foul mood. The ride back did little to sooth his shot nerves and his blooming anger.

    “Well Micah’s alive,” he growls, tossing his hat across Dutch’s tent where it falls to the floor beside his cot. “Don’t ask me to do nothin’ for that man ever again.”

    “Did he not come home with you?”

    Arthur shakes his head. “Says he ain’t comin’ back till he’s got a peace offerin’ for ya. Whatever the hell he means by that.”

    “Mh. Thank you, Arthur, for rescuing that fool.”

    Arthur’s anger, as justified as it is, trickles away at the gratitude in Dutch’s voice. “Yeah, well, just don’t expect me to do it a second time.”

    Dutch takes Arthur’s hand and pulls him in, caressing his jaw. He kisses Arthur. “Thank you, Arthur.”

    “Mhh. I don’t like him, Dutch.”

    “I’d hoped the two of you would be able to work this… rivalry out between the two of you.”

    “Ain’t a _rivalry_ . We ain’t kids,” Arthur says. _Sons of Dutch,_ rings through his ears. He shakes the thought away, tossing his head like a wet dog. “This isn’t… I know you raised me, Dutch, you and Hosea,” mostly Hosea, “that don’t make this, I dunno, strange, or nothin’? Us, I mean.”

    Dutch chews his lip, looking like he’s holding back amusement, but he seems to contemplate the question, taking it serious enough for Arthur’s benefit. “This _is_ strange, Arthur, unique at least. But it isn’t strange for that reason. I am not _that_ much older than you.”

    Arthur nods. Dutch sometimes calls him _son,_ but he’s called him _brother_ often enough as well. They’re closer in age than Arthur is with John. And as wise and in control as Dutch likes to come across, it’s always been more like Hosea wrangling in his three out of control sons more than anything. They’re a family, the four of them, ain’t nothing about it ever been normal or average. They’re a family of outlaws and lowdown criminals that sleep in the woods. And Arthur loves them each for it, keeps that love strongly guarded in his heart.

    Arthur smiles, runs his hands through his damp hair and over his beard. Dutch puts him at ease, soothes him like a spooked horse. It would annoy him if he weren’t so grateful for it. Ain’t no one been able to do that for him except Mary. Arthur hides his face in Dutch’s chest and exhales loudly.

    Dutch laughs and Arthur feels it rumble through his chest. Dutch’s fingers in his hair, scratching his scalp, practically turn Arthur to putty. “Have you eaten, Arthur?”

    He shakes his head. He hasn’t attempted eating anything today, too aware of the lingering nausea from last night’s drinking. He becomes aware of his hunger with a sudden grumbling stomach, loud enough to alert the both of them.

    “Come eat, Mister Pearson’s made something edible tonight. At least have some bread.”

    Arthur lets himself be guided to the campfire where Hosea sits, having a soft conversation with Charles and Javier. Javier shares a rare story about Mexico and Hosea asks polite questions. Arthur sits beside Charles on the log and the man offers him a nod.

    “Charles.”

    “Hey, Arthur.”

    Arthur likes Charles, the two of them get on well despite the minimal words they share. Charles is an excellent hunter and strong fighter and Arthur’s found him reliable and trustworthy.

    Dutch returns with a bowl of stew he shoves in Arthur’s hands, a hunk of bread on the side. Arthur murmurs a thanks. Dutch ain’t wrong, it is mildly edible this time, thinks Pearson may have actually seasoned the meat for once.

    Arthur eats what he can, finishing the bread and not much else. He shuffles from the log to where he can lean against it, finding himself drifting as he listens to Dutch and Hosea talk about something that happened years ago. His head slumps, chin dropping to his chest, and soon he’s tilting, his shoulder resting against Dutch’s knee. Javier plucks on his guitar, he hears Mary-Beth say something to Charles or maybe Dutch as she passes.

    “He’s been working too hard,” Charles is saying.

    “Arthur’s never been one to know his own limits I’m afraid,” Hosea says. “Been the same since he was a boy.”

    “I’ve been asking a lot of him,” Dutch says. “An unfair amount, probably.”

    “He puts up a strong face, but the boy’s sensitive enough,” Hosea says. He sounds almost proud, proud of the boy he’s raised. “Cares enough about all of us to not complain about being needed so much. Too proud to ask for help. Charles, he likes you, he trusts you, I mean, if it’s not too much to ask…?”

    “Of course,” Charles says, accepting the role of moderator generously.

    “I only hope things settle down soon,” Hosea says.

    “They will,” Dutch says confidently. “Things will settle down and we can return back west.”

 

* * *

 

    “Arthur, isn’t it? Arthur Morgan. Van der Linde’s most trusted associate. You’ve read the files, typical case, orphaned street kid seduced by that maniac’s silver tongue, and matures into a degenerate murder. Agent Milton, Agent Ross. Pinkerton Detective Agency, seconded to the United States Government. Nice to finally meet you. We know a lot about you.”

    Arthur guards little Jack, keeping himself between the boy and these men. He keeps a hand wrapped firmly around the fishing pole, his knuckles going white.  “Do you?”

“You’re a wanted man, Mister Morgan. There’s five-thousand dollars for your head alone.”

    “Five-thousand dollars? For me? Can I turn myself in?” Arthur tries keeping his tone light, doesn’t want to frighten Jack.

    “We want Van der Linde.”  
    They always do. “Old Dutch? I haven’t seen him for months.”

    They don’t believe him, but Arthur doesn’t exactly expect them to. It sends a surge over protectiveness through Arthur. Like a loyal dog, his hackles raise. They know about the Leviticus Cornwall train they robbed in Granite Pass. It makes something in Arthur ache.

    “Bring in Van der Linde and you have my word you won’t swing,” the agent lies.

    Arthur takes he and Jack back to camp as quick as he can, pushing his horse and holding Jack tight against his chest. He gives the kid shakey reassurances that Mac is just fine and those disagreeable men won’t have the opportunity to do Uncle Dutch or no one else any harm.

    Jack presents his momma with his flower chain necklace, and Abigail’s grin is blindingly bright. “Did you thank Uncle Arthur?”

    “No need, we had a good time.”

    Abigail, as she has always been able to, sees right through Arthur. “What’s wrong?”

    “Nothing.” He waves her off. “Just met some folk, I’d better go speak with Dutch.” Arthur rushes to Dutch’s tent, relieved to see the man sitting and reading. “We got a problem,” he says lowly, tense. The calm they have found in Horseshoe Overlook has shattered around Arthur.

    “What?”

    “I just met some guys out near the river, a feller named, erm… Milton and, erm… I don’t remember the other feller’s name- Ross! Milton and Ross.”

    Dutch looks at him perplexed and impatient. “And?”

    _“And_ they are employees of the Pinkerton Detective Agency.” Arthur paces, his arms gesturing wildly, keyed up with anxiety and anger. “And they know about the train and they know we’re here.”

    “Where you followed back here?”

    Arthur balks at the older man, his teeth grinding in his skull. _“No,_ they know we’re near here and they want you, Dutch.” He watches Dutch pace. “They offered me my freedom in exchange, they did!”

    “Why didn’t you take it?”

    Arthur’s laugh is brittle and sharp. “Very funny. What do we do now?”

    Dutch paces, but he’s calmer, his ease zapping some of Arthur’s own anxieties. “I say we do nothing just yet. They’re just trying to scare us into doing something stupid. We have turned a corner… we survived them mountain. We just need to stay calm.” Dutch sounds so sure, mind made up.

    Arthur nods, tucking his chin to his chest. “Fine, if that’s what you think is best. They frightened little Jack.”

    That catches Dutch’s ear. “What did they say?”

“We were fishing. Said they caught up with Mac, he’s dead.” Arthur runs his hand through his hair, setting his hat aside. “Never told them a thing, that boy.”

    “Those Callender boys were good men.”

    “We need to be careful, Dutch. I’m serious. No going into Valentine on your own. It’s you they want.”

“Arthur.”

“I’m serious.” He takes Dutch’s hand in his. _“Dutch._ They’ll be in Valentine. If they see you-”

    “Arthur.” Dutch sits Arthur down on his cot. “I appreciate your concern, son, but have some faith in me.”

    “This ain’t about trust, Dutch. It’s… I don’t want you to be-” Arthur fumbles with his words, tripping over his emotions that jumble up inside him and cloud his judgment. Dutch has never lead them astray. What happened in Blackwater was… it was out of their control, Arthur has to trust that Dutch only did what he thought was right. That girl that died, well, Arthur hasn’t forgotten that, but Arthur ain’t innocent either. How Arthur feels about Dutch has been evolving; changing. He’s always loved Dutch, of course he has, but this feels different and he don’t know if Dutch will like that.

    Dutch looks at him expectantly, waiting for what he has to say.

    “Dutch, I-” Arthur feels like swallowing his tongue, eating all the things he almost says. He feels Dutch’s thumb brushing against the back on his hand, thinks of Dutch’s hands and how they touch and caress and Arthur loves his hands. The hands that have taken lives, hands that brought Arthur blinding pleasure. He likes how well Dutch’s hands fit in his own. Arthur’s own calloused hands that have choked the life out of men at Dutch’s command.

    He pulls his hand away, feeling over aware of the open tent flaps and the bustling camp around them. He swallows.

    “Just be careful,” he says.

    “Of course. I trust your concern, Arthur. If you say there’s reason to be worried, I trust you.”

    Arthur feels a swell of pride, cradling beneath his breastbone, at being gifted Dutch’s implicit trust. Arthur wants to kiss him.

 

* * *

 

    The following days are mostly unobtrusive and uneventful. They rob a train across the border and, aside from Sean getting knocked in the head and the law’s too timely response, things are quiet. They don’t hear from the Pinkertons and it is easy to forget they were ever here at all. Arthur spends the days collecting from debtors, hunting with Charles, and familiarizing himself with his new horse. He goes on a long ride across the Heartlands, watching the bison and wild horses and picking herbs to slow his beating pulse.

    Blue is a strong-willed filly, beautiful and muscled. Arthur found her not far from camp, tied to a tree and looking like she had been left there, abandoned, for days. She don’t take well to people but she has warmed up enough to Arthur. Her sooty coat and dark eyes calm Arthur when she nudges his arm and nips at his sleeve. It makes Arthur laugh, deep and genuine in a way he hasn’t for some time. No steed can ever replace Boudicea, but Blue has already wormed her way into his withered and ruptured heart.

    Arthur offers her some raspberries and she eats them happily, only to nip at his hair right after. “Hey, greedy,” he chides. She snorts and tosses her head causing Arthur to chuckle and relent, offering her a carrot. “Here, have this.” Arthur puts the burdock root and oregano he’s collected in small pouches before storing them in his satchel. He feels calmer than he has in days, got a good beating in at Emerald Ranch collecting that Lily woman’s debt this morning, leaving him frustrated and short tempered. Hunting with Charles was meant to calm him, but had only ended in Charles shooting a poacher dead and Arthur choking the life out of the other, leaving him more keyed up and spiteful of the world. The riding helps calm him.

    Arriving back at camp, Arthur removes Blue’s saddle and tack and brushes her down. “Yeah, you done good, girly.” He pats her neck and brushes her mane back into place, making a mental note to trim it so it doesn’t hang over her eyes. “There you go, pretty girl.” She nips at his sleeve and shoves his arm with her nose. “Yeah, you like me now?” he chuckles. “It’s only ‘cos I feed yah, huh, miss lady?”

    Arthur catches that O’Driscoll boy watching him and clears his throat, straightening his spine. He leaves his saddle by his cot and puts on a clean shirt and smooths his hair before popping his head into Dutch’s tent, words half-formed on his tongue only to fall flat when he finds the tent empty. He tries not to pout, spinning on his heel and finding Hosea cleaning his rifle by his bedroll.

    “Hosea!”

    “Fine afternoon, Arthur.”

    “Have you seen Dutch?”

    “It’s good to see you too, son. I’ve been just fine, very kind of you to ask.”

    Arthur rolls his eyes. “Hello, Hosea. How has your day been?”

    Hosea smiles. “It’s been quiet, but I’m not complaining.”

    “Have you seen Dutch?”

    “He went into Valentine with Herr Strauss and John.”

    _“Why?”_

“A drink at the saloon, I believe. Why so much interest?”

    Arthur chews on his concerns and keeps them to himself. “Nothin’, just wan’ed to speak with him. Don’t like him being in town with the Pinkertons around.”

    Hosea nods sagely. “Dutch is a big boy, Arthur, he’ll be just fine, and he’s not alone.”

    “I know that,” he grumbles.

    “John was looking for you, by the way.”

    “What for?”

    “I don’t know, Arthur, I’m not playing messenger boy for you two children,” he says. “He wanted you to meet him by the auction yard, go ask him yourself.”

    Arthur finds John just where Hosea said he would be and lets himself be roped into helping the boy rustle some damn sheep and play cowboy. Afterwards, John tells him Dutch is waiting for them at the saloon and Arthur is eager to get there, still itching to see the man.

    “Dutch. Leopold.” Arthur can’t fight the small smile on his face. He dips his hat to Dutch, offering him a flirtatious grin. He feels relieved to see him.

    “Where have you been?” Dutch insists.

    “Workin’,” Arthur defends, “Marston’s thing.”

    Dutch nods. “Good. And?”

    “We’re just waiting to get some pay… on a few… sheep.”

    Dutch sends Herr Strauss and John off and offers Arthur a drink. Arthur’s glad to see him, feels more at ease seeing Dutch in the flesh, knows Dutch is safer with some extra guns nearby. They toast to each other’s health. “We got a good take from that train last night.”

    “Good, good.”

    “Was Marston’s plan, boy did good. Took a hard left turn with having us rustle sheep today, but s’pose he’s bringing money in.” He shrugs.

    Dutch chuckles. “John’s always had… ideas.”

    Arthur laughs into his whiskey glass.

    The calm doesn’t last long. Cornwall himself making a scene in the streets of Valentine. “Van der Linde! Get out here now! Van der Linde! You don’t know me, but you keep robbing me!”

    “What do you think?” Dutch asks of him as Cornwall threatens Strauss and John’s lives. He introduces himself by name as though they really needed that cleared up for them.

    Arthur’s heart races steadily, pulse loud in his ears. “You start spinning the yarn and when I think the moment’s right I’ll make a move.”

    Outside, Cornwall keeps shouting at the heavens themself.

    Dutch looks calm, but Arthur knows the storm that hides behind that calm far too well. He meets Arthur’s eyes and the trust he holds in Arthur near takes his breath away. “Why not?”

    They step outside and it’s like Valentine’s become a ghost town. Cornwall rides away, coward that he is, can’t even do his own dirty work.

    “Please, gentlemen, this is a terrible mistake,” Dutch starts. “This is a case of mistaken identity.”

    The two of them keep their arms raised and Arthur makes eye contact with John, hopes that boy know that if any of them are going to survive today Arthur is going to make damn sure it’s John.

    “What is worse than admonishing a man for the sins of another? Who wants to be the messiah?” Dutch is spinning nonsense, his words lies and meaningless rambles, but he’s damn good at it.

    With the men distracted, Arthur reaches for his pistol, and three out of five men are dead, bullets buried in their skulls before Dutch has even finished his train of thought. John dives for the handgun of the man that had held him a knife point and even Strauss picks up a gun, the both of them diving for cover. More men come flooding the streets, agents and lawmen. Arthur takes his Lancaster and covers Dutch and Marston, taking flank and falling into his familiar role of watching everyone else’s backs. They try sticking together but Strauss gets shot and it’s slow work getting out of town. Miraculously, they live.

    Arthur takes his time returning to camp, leading the agents west out of town and circling back around north through the Cumberland Forest before returning to camp.

    When Arthur does return, he almost wishes he had just stayed out in the woods. Or maybe just stayed out with Blue picking herbs and daisies.

    The camp is in a state of disarray, everyone scrambling to pack up hastily. Hosea is arguing obscenely loud with Dutch in his tent.

    “We keep heading east. Is that the plan?”

    Arthur feels his stomach clench at the thought.

    “For now,” Dutch replies and Arthur knows that tone. It’s one that only Hosea has drawn out of Dutch once or twice over the years, practically reducing Dutch to chided little kid. It’s almost humbling.

    “And when do we stop? When we reach Paris?”

    “That’d be nice, join the Commune? We stop when we find someplace sensible, shake them that’s following us and lie low.”

    Arthur doesn’t know what _the commune_ is but he knows it ain’t nothing for them. They’re supposed to be going west. That was the plan. Not- not _this._

“This is lying low?” Hosea scoffs. “Turned into a bunch of killers, I mean it. We ain’t even got the delusion of being anything but a bunch of killers.”

    “We are just trying to survive, Hosea. We don’t have a choice.”

    _Survive._

    “We moving then?” Arthur asks, having heard enough of them fighting.

    “Yeah,” Dutch says.

    Hosea stands to leave and watching Dutch’s face fall makes something in Arthur ache.

    “This’ll end soon,” Dutch promises.

    Hosea rounds on Dutch with a fire in his eyes and wagging an accusative finger. “Damn right it will!”

    Arthur takes a step back, closer to Dutch, feeling like he’s in trouble too.

    “Constipated as usual,” Dutch mutters. He scoots over on his cot to make room for Arthur.

    “You alright, Dutch?”

    “Fine. How did you get on shaking the law?”

    “Fine. We really moving _south?”_

    Dutch sighs, heavy and frustrated. “Micah told me of this place, Dewberry Creek, he says.” He points the place out on his map. It’s across the border, maybe a couple of hours ride, not too far.

    “Mhh.”

    “Why don’t you and Charles ride out, take a look and clear off anyone you find before the whole lot of us move in looking so conspicuous.”

    “And how the hell am I s’possed to do that?”

    “I don’t know, Arthur, do a dance?”

    Arthur groans, pushing off the cot and taking up his hat. “Looks like I’ve turned into the goddamn errand boy.”

    Dutch stands as well. “You’ve turned into my-” Dutch bites his words and the two of them pause there, glaring at the other.

    “Your what?”

    “My partner,” Dutch finishes. “You worry because I worry. I am asking you to do this, Arthur, because I trust you to do this.”

    Arthur nods. “We need to talk later.”

    “We will,” Dutch promises.

    Again, Arthur nods. “Charles! Come with me, we got work to do.”

    Charles, godsend that he is, is at his side in a moment’s notice. “Now where have I heard that before?”

 

 

    Arthur spends the first night at Clemen’s Point alone, sleeping on his pathetic bedroll in the grass, Blue lays beside him with her hooves splayed out in front of her, entirely at ease with Arthur watching her back and exhausted from the excitement of the day. He lies under the stars, hands folded on his stomach and listening to his horse breathe.

    He thinks about Dutch, about what he wants to say to Dutch. He don’t know how to phrase it, all them things that get jumbled up inside him. He ain’t never been good at it, always letting things pass him by without telling them around him how important they are. He never told Eliza, should have told Isaac more often. Maybe if he’d told Mary she would have loved him more and she would have wanted him as much as he wanted her.

    But Dutch ain’t Mary and Arthur knows that. He ain’t fooling himself or nothing, he don’t _want_ Dutch to be Mary.

    Arthur groans and rolls to smother himself in his bedroll

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to go ahead and upload chapter two since I've had the first handful of chapters written for months now and I'm tired of holding onto them.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am,,,, overwhelmed,, entirely by y’all’s response to this. I do not deserve ur kindness but it’s made me feel rly good. I’ve been writing this since December and scraped it so many times but kept falling back to it. I really appreciate you all, thank you so much.

    The gang settles into Clemen’s Point easily enough under Miss Grimshaw’s guiding iron fist. Night falls on their little lakeside camp quick enough and spirits rise as everyone finds their place. Arthur wouldn’t call it home, far from it, but if Dutch says it will do then it will do. Even if he doesn’t share the man’s enthusiasm.

    Arthur sweeps Dutch’s tent flap aside and warns, “Hosea’s still on his rampage, I’d steer clear.”

    Dutch laughs. “He’ll get over it. He always does. If I worried each time Hosea wanted my neck I would be a very nervous man.”

    “Pretty sure he’s after both our necks,” Arthur says. Arthur ain’t no stranger to being the target of Hosea’s anger, the old man practically raised him and Arthur didn’t exactly make that an easy task. He unbuttons his vest, tossing it aside and undoes the first couple of buttons of his shirt. “It’s hotter than the flame’s of hell down here.” It’s a thick, invasive, soupy kind of heat that clings to the flesh and settles heavy in his lungs.

    “Hosea’s anger is a short lived thing, always is.”

    “Mh.” Arthur takes a seat on Dutch’s cot and lays down, feeling his muscles stretch and his joints pop. “Odd, how much nicer your bed is than mine.”

    “You’ll just have to sleep in mine more often then,” Dutch muses. He’s thumbing through some maps and folding them away, his tent half organized and half in disarray from the move.

    Arthur chuckles. “I guess so. You should really get some rest too, Dutch.”

    “That an invitation?”

    “It’s _your_ bed.”

    Dutch taps Arthur on the thigh and he gladly sits up, surprised when Dutch takes his face in hand and kisses him. “And you look very lovely _in_ my bed.”

    Arthur feels his cheeks flush pink and cannot decide if he’s embarrassed or turned on. Thinks it might be a little of both. “Dutch-” He’s shut up quick enough, keeping himself from further humiliation by another kiss firmly planted on his lips. He lets himself be laid on his back, shivering as Dutch undoes his belt, undoing his suspenders and tugging his shirt up. Arthur starts to unbutton his shirt, first untying his neckerchief and throwing it somewhere, not sure where it lands. He hears Dutch chuckle, feels it really, as it rumbles through his chest and makes Arthur shiver.

    “A little desperate, are we?”

    “Don’t care,” Arthur moans into his open mouth. He kisses Dutch deeply, desperately, before reaching out to undo his shirt, fumbling with the buttons and those _stupid_ chains on his damn vest. He’s grateful when Dutch takes over, stripping the vest off himself. Arthur immediately latches onto the exposed flesh of his neck and collar, kissing and sucking and nipping.

    Arthur knows it wont do to leave marks where the others could see, but a part of him doesn’t care. A part of him _wants_ the others to know. Wants them to know _he_ has done this to Dutch; the charismatic Dutch van der Linde, reduced to moans of pleasure under Arthur’s menstrations. Show them all he’s more than just some skullian gunman.

    But Arthur shakes those thoughts, knows they come from that jealous and vicious part of himself.

    “Dutch.” He knows he’s begging but he is beyond caring. “Dutch, I wanna taste you.”

    The older man kisses him deeply before peppering small kisses down Arthur’s neck. “Arthur, oh Arthur. You beautiful boy.”

    The praise makes Arthur ache, makes his cock throb and his head spin. Dutch sits up, pulling Arthur with him and the younger man immediately drops to the floor, falling to his knees before their leader. He reaches for Dutch’s pants’ clasp, pausing when Dutch stops him with a hand in his hair.

    _“Ask_ for it,” he says lowly.

    “You serious?”

    _“Arthur.”_

He looks at Dutch with dark eyes, his hands shake. He feels something shift in their relationship. He isn’t sure what.

    “Please, Dutch.”

    Dutch smiles and smooths Arthur’s hair back. “Such a good boy. One more time.”

_“Please.”_

    Dutch smiles. “Go on, Arthur.”

    Arthur tugs Dutch’s trousers out of the way and strokes his half hard cock, pleased when he feels him stiffen in his palm. Taking him in his mouth, Arthur moans obscenely. Dutch pets his hair and hums praises that go right to Arthur’s cock.

    Arthur works Dutch over, mouth and hand. He gags when Dutch jerks his hips, but a hand in his hair keeps him in place. Arthur’s cock strains in his trousers and leaves him a moaning and desperate man.

    “There you go, Arthur. So perfect for me.”

    The whimper that comes from Arthur horrifies him. He jerks, startled, as Dutch presses his boot down on Arthur’s cock. It feels amazing, bordering on painful, but Arthur is too far gone. His senses flooded with _Dutch._ He is all Arthur tastes, all he smells. His ears flooded with the sounds the both of them make.

    Arthur swallows around Dutch as he finishes in his mouth, muttering praises as he pets Arthur’s hair. Arthur laps at him, taking all that Dutch has to give. “Good boy.”

    Arthur groans, grinding into the sole of his boot and moaning around Dutch’s manhood. He feels a familiar heat pooling in his belly and chases after that relief, desperate.

    “Go on, boy,” Dutch says, his breath ghosting over Arthur’s ears. “Take what you want.” He presses his boot more firmly against Arthur’s crotch and he grinds into the touch, watching Dutch through heavy eyes.

    Arthur whimpers, panting Dutch’s name. He comes like that, in his pants like he’s fifteen, and grinding against Dutch like a dog.

    Arthur’s jaw is sore and his throat feels raw. He buries his face against Dutch’s knee, panting as Dutch threads his fingers in his hair. He tugs Arthur up by his hair and kisses him. “Such a wonderful boy for me.”

    Arthur grins, feeling sated and tired, his head feels light. “Mhh, Dutch.”

    “What have I done to deserve your devotion?”

    Arthur lets himself be pulled onto the cot, looking at Dutch like he’s hung the stars in the sky. Putty in Dutch’s hands.

    “Get your pants off.”

    Arthur chuckles but does as Dutch says. “You got some for me, or do I need to blind the boys by grabbing my own while stark naked? Won’t leave much to the imagination as to what you and I’ve been up to.”

    Dutch tosses a pair of soft trousers at Arthur. “Take these.” They’re a silky, expensive thing that Dutch stole somewhere down the line.

    Arthur cleans himself and dresses, watching Dutch rise and open the back of his tent, letting moonlight in where it reflects off the lake. The crickets and june bugs are noisy, Arthur can hear what of the gang that’s still awake around the fire. It’s peaceful.

    Dutch lights a cigar and takes a few puffs before offering it to Arthur who accepts it with a nod.

    “Think we’ll be alright here?”

    “We will be _fine,_ Arthur. We just need more money and then we will be long gone, somewhere far, far away from here,” Dutch promises. “Somewhere the Pinkerton’s won’t find us.”

    “What’s the plan?” he asks, blowing a pillow of smoke. He trusts Dutch, but things have been rocky recently and Dutch… he has been different. Not all in a bad sort of way, but different. Arthur can’t put his finger on it.

    Dutch hums, thoughtful. “There’s a town not far from here,” he says. “We saw the road sign on our way in. I say we poke around there, see what we see.”

    Nodding, Arthur says, “we need to be quiet about it. Last thing we need is to draw attention to ourselves and blow another town to hell.”

    Dutch rolls his eyes, but he smiles at Arthur. “You really are turning into Hosea.”

    Arthur scoffs. “And I still don’t know what you mean by that.” He passes the cigar to Dutch. “Suppose it’s better than having two of _you.”_

“Oh, I disagree, Arthur.” His laugh is deep and smokey and he grins mischievously around his cigar. “Imagine what we could accomplish.”

    “Don’t dream too big.”

    “Oh but that’s sometimes all we have in this life, Arthur,” he tells him. “Dreams and little fantasies to get us through hard times.”

    “We should’ve fled west out of Blackwater,” he says on a sigh. “Should have just made for California and never stepped foot in that cursed town to begin with.” Arthur wishes he never heard the name Blackwater, still blames Micah for finding that ferry job. Getting Dutch all excited about a bad idea when Arthur and Hosea were about to score big on their own. Instead they did a botch job and lost near all their money. Lost good men and poor Jenny too.

    “Don’t be unfair, Arthur,” Dutch chides.

    “Ain’t nothing to do with fairness, I blame Micah fully.”

    “Now, Arthur, we can argue about Mister Bell in the morning,” Dutch says. “Just not while this tent still smells like sex, please.”

    Arthur snorts, accepting the cigar as Dutch offers it. “Guess you have a point. Still, I’ll take you up on that argument in the morning.” He puts out the cigar and takes Dutch by the arm, leading him into the tent. “C’mon, it’s late and I don’t know about you but I’m exhausted.”

    “You getting old on me, Mister Morgan?”

    Arthur barks a laugh. “Just about.” He leads Dutch to bed and shoves him on the cot, far too happy to use the man as a pillow.

  
  


    Arthur wakes before sunrise and carefully sneaks back to his wagon for a fresh change of clothes. He does his chores, chops wood and brushes down Blue. Before he can bring her fresh hay, he sees the O’Driscoll boy, Kieren, is awake and has already done it. The boy is tugging a pale of water to their trough and is already brushing down his own bay roan. So Arthur makes the coffee, pouring himself a mug, bidding a sleepy Abigail good morning, and bringing one for Dutch too.

    The man is standing by the waterline, surveying the lake. Arthur thinks if he squints he can make out Blackwater across the way.

    “My daddy died in a field in Pennsylvania fighting this lot,” he says, apropos of nothing. “I ever tell you that?”

    Arthur rolls his eyes. “Many times.”

    “I see I’m boring you, Arthur,” he says, accepting the steaming mug. “Thank you.”

    “Worrying me,” he corrects. “We lost men back there.” He jerks a finger across the lake where river boats are coming and going.

    “We have lofty goals, Arthur. We’re trying to return society to a kinder, truer, better way.”

    Dutch says the words so casually that they leave Arthur feeling he’s been struck. “Dutch-”

    “Now of course there’s going to be casualties.”

    “We’re thieves, Dutch… in a world that don’t want us no more. _That’s_ what we are. Dutch, people died, _good_ people, _our_ people. _You_ killed a girl. Now I ain’t blamin’ you for nothing, I weren’t on that boat. But, Dutch, even you gotta admit it don’t look too pretty from where I’m standing. You got a blind spot where it comes to Micah.”

    “Arthur-”

    “I’m serious, Dutch,” Arthur says sternly. The tone startles Arthur even as it slips out. “That man’s only thinking ‘bout himself. And now we’ve got Pinkertons breathing down our necks, we got a price on both our heads, Cornwall wants our stuffed heads on his wall-”

    “Arthur. We are dreamers in an ever duller world of facts, now I’ll give you that.”

    _“Dutch,”_ Arthur says wearily.

    “Enough worries, Arthur. Worrying will get us nowhere but an early grave,” he says. “We can only go forward from here. As long as we stay together, as long as I’ve got you by my side, we will all be just fine.”

    Maybe Arthur is just a pessimist, and maybe Dutch is a madman. Either way, Arthur loves him and he would follow him into hell.

    For now, they drink their coffee.

    “Come on, darling.” Dutch claps him on the arm. “It’s nice out, we’ve got the day!”

    Arthur chokes on the last dregs of his coffee, feels his face burning hot at the endearment.

    “Old Hosea says that there’s a creek around here. I reckon it’s full of fish.” The two of them trudge through camp, Arthur dropping their empty mugs in the wash basin, until they catch Hosea brushing down Silver Dollar. “Hey, old girl, come down here, why don’t you show us this creek you been pissing in?”

    Arthur cracks a grin, but it falls short when he sees how pale and ashen Hosea is looking. “Hosea?”

    “You don’t look too rosy, old friend,” Dutch says. “I thought this warmer weather would-”

    “My days of looking good are long over, Dutch.” Hosea offers Arthur a smile, brushing his son’s concerns aside. “I’m fine, Arthur.”

    “Mh.”

    Hosea promises them a fine fishing spot and Arthur doesn’t understand why they don’t fish off the shore at camp, but Dutch keeps it no secret he wants away from camp. Wants to get out with the “old guard” as it is. “The curious couple and their unruly son,” as Hosea puts it, even if it is a little skewed from the truth of things.

    Dutch echoes Arthur’s concerns he shared with him last night. “Keep a low profile, especially in the local town. After Valentine, I want everyone on best behavior here, no trouble, but start turnin’ over the soil and the rocks… see what turns up.”

    Of course, being the three of them, they can’t keep their heads down for one god damn afternoon. And this time, as it has more than once before, trouble has arrived in the form of Trelawny. And, of course, Arthur does most of the heavy lifting. Although, playing buddy-buddy with the local law is new for Arthur.

    He gets a good beating in on some local criminals, one gets a good beating in on Arthur too. Earns him a black eye and small cut on his arm.

    Arthur can’t believe the local law, dumbest lost they’ve seen yet, and he knows Dutch and Hosea will take advantage of it. But, Arthur puts it all from his mind.

    “Let me row, you boys are too old for real labour no more.” Arthur shoots Dutch a wink, knowing his charm falls short with the scab forming across his lip and the bruising blossoming around his eye.

    “And you’re too dumb for anything else,” Hosea laughs.

    Arthur wheezes a laugh, picking up the oars. “You’re still to quick for me, old man.”

    Hosea flicks Arthur’s hat, setting it askew. “I enjoy picking on children. Now take us to the deeper water, and pray for good luck and stupid fish.”

    “But what about stupid luck and good fish?”

    “That’ll do too.”

    Arthur steers their little boat out to the lake and basks in the company of his surrogate father and, well, Dutch. Arthur’s not sure how to define their relationship these days, but he’s not overly concerned by it. It is what it is and Arthur loves him all the same.

    He listens to them sing, is glad to sing along with them. For a moment it’s like he is twenty years old again and they are someplace far away from here in a different time. Different people with different lives.

    Arthur is happy.

 

* * *

 

    Micah is suspicious. He ain’t said nothing to Arthur, or Dutch as far as Arthur knows, but it’s clear enough. The way he eyes Arthur with every coming and going from Dutch’s tent. Arthur suspects he’s noticed the times Arthur enters Dutch’s tent late in the evening and doesn’t leave till the early hours of the morning. In turn, Arthur tries to keep quiet, tries to keep every desperate gasp and moan as soft as he can.

    Sometimes that gets difficult.

    Arthur gasps with every roll of Dutch’s hips as the older man pounds into him. The sound of flesh on flesh is deafening in Arthur’s ears. He bites down on his hand to keep the sounds in. They have only done this once before, Arthur too new to it for it to be much fun and Dutch too worried about hurting him. He doesn’t seem to hold such reservations this time around.

    “Dutch.” He grabs at the bedsheets, listening to Dutch’s panting in his ears, his soft moans. He is all that exists in this moment.

    “Arthur, oh, Arthur.”

    “Ah, ah, ah!”

    “Come for me, love.”

    “Dutch!” He knows he’s being too loud but he doesn’t know how to stop himself.

    “Come on, Arthur,” Dutch says. “Come for me.”

    Just like that, Arthur is gone, finishing all over the cot and himself with a pathetic, keening, moan. He feels Dutch finish inside of him and it sends a warmth through him, leaving him sweat soaked and filthy.

    Dutch plants a wet kiss to Arthur’s jaw.

_“Fuck.”_

    Dutch chuckles. “You’re so beautiful.”

    “You’re going blind, old man.” He moans as Dutch kisses him deeper, his eyes heavy. “Gotta take a piss. G’off me.”

    Dutch rolls off of him with a smile. “Don’t take too long.”

    Arthur dresses and slips out of the tent. It’s late, late enough that the camp has all gone to bed, bugs and horses and a pathetic little scoutfire the only sounds. He wanders to the edge of camp on weak legs to relieve himself, only just tucked his shirt back into his trousers when he feels a hand on his arm, grabbing him and slamming him against the tree.

    Arthur swings a fist, catching whoever’s grabbed him across the jaw, only eliciting a laugh from Micah fucking Bell.

    “Funny findin’ you still up, cowpoke.”

    Arthur hisses, “what the hell is wrong witchu?”

    “Me?” Micah sneers. “I see you waltzing outta Dutch’s tent in the dead of night smellin’ like sin-”

    “I dunno what you mean, you snake!”

    Micah chuckles with a sneer. “You make yourself Dutch’s little whore, now, hmm? Scared he don’t need you no more, afraid of bein’ replaced, so you find yourself a new use? Or maybe that’s always been in your job description, hmm?”

    Arthur shoves Micah off of him, goes to grab his revolver before remembering he left his gun belt on Dutch’s floor. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

    “No? You telling me that weren’t you in there gaspin’ and moanin’ like the biggest whore this side of the Lannahechee?” Micah laughs. “Arthur Morgan, big scary outlaw, fallin’ to his knees in a bid to stay useful.”

    Arthur punches him right in the nose, satisfied when he sees the blood gushing over his lips and chin.

    “You sonofa-”

    Micah dives for him and the two fall to the dirt, throwing fists and insults. He gets some good punches in, but Arthur gets him pinned, laying into him relentlessly.

    “What are you two doing?”

    Arthur stops, fists poised to swing, but Dutch’s voice stops him in his tracks. Like a damn obedient dog. Dutch grabs him by the shirt collar and pulls him to his feet.

    “That’s enough, the both of you,” Dutch growls. There’s a deep frown across his face and his anger is palpable. “I’ve about had enough with you two’s childish behavior. Arthur, get back to bed,” he commands. “Micah, walk it off.”

    Arthur goes, head down, and ignores the stare he gets from a bleary eyed and curious Javier. Arthur slips through the back of Dutch’s tent, keyed up and frustrated.

    “What is wrong with you?” Dutch demands in a harsh whisper.

  _“Me?_ He attacked me.” Arthur rounds on Dutch, livid. “Maybe you should keep a tighter leash on your attack dogs, Dutch!” He don’t know to which of them he means. “He grabs me, runnin’ his mouth about what you and I get up to. What’s to stop him spoutin’ what he thinks he knows to the rest of camp! Or hell, the law!” He scrubs the blood from his lip and feels his face throb, knows he will have a second black eye by morning.

    _“That is enough.”_ Dutch’s tone is severe and it shuts Arthur down, leaving him speechless and feeling like a boy.

    Like a reprimanded dog, needs a good kick and to be put in line.

    “I don’t want to hear another word from you about Micah. This isn’t up for debate.”

    Arthur swallows, feels raw and kicked around. His muscles throb and he is still sore from what he and Dutch had finished only minutes ago. He shakes his head. “Fine.” Blowing past Dutch, he grabs his gun belt off Dutch’s floor and makes for his own tent. “Goodnight, Dutch.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yikes


End file.
